I bundle Mr. Brazil up and send him on his merry way—he insisted he didn’t want to go to the hospital, so what the fuck could I do but let him go?—and then I wait for Michael to show up. The gym is empty. Mason, the spy in our midst, was supposed to be here training first thing this morning before he started work across the road at the auto mechanics’ place, but he never showed, so I have the whole place to myself. The fees at Blood & Roses fighting gym are astronomically high, so only the most serious people come and train here. Means the place isn’t overrun with teenagers whose balls have just dropped and don’t have a fucking clue what they’re doing. Also means Seattle’s criminal element tends to stay away, which is exactly what I was hoping for. Whenever a guy wants to apply for membership, I have Michael perform a very in-depth background search on them, making sure they’re not going to bring trouble to our doorstep. The faintest whiff of underground bullshit, and their applications are rejected with no explanation as to why.
Michael arrives at the gym around midday and drops his workout bag on the ground by the roller doors, sagging against the metal frame. He looks like shit. I tell him this, which doesn’t seem to help in any way but entertains me greatly.
“Screw you, man. I haven’t slept in thirty-six hours,” he informs me, pressing the tips of his fingers into his eye sockets. “I’m getting old. I can’t do this shit anymore.”
“Why the fuck haven’t you slept? Better not be moonlighting for someone else,” I growl.
“Of course not. I’m just…it’s personal.”
“Personal?” I want to smirk, but I manage to rein in the urge. Personal means fucking. No, scratch that. Personal means hard-core fucking. Michael’s always been a bit of a closed book when it comes to his life outside of my employ, and that’s never bothered me. Too many guys don’t shut up about where they’re sticking their dicks, and I’d rather Michael kept his cards close to his chest over him incessantly talking about the chicks he’s seeing. I’ll admit to being faintly curious right now, though. Only faintly.
Michael rolls his eyes. “It’s not what you’re thinking,” he informs me.
“I’m thinking you’ve been awake for thirty-six hours because you’ve been entertaining someone.”
“Okay, so you’re not completely wrong. But it’s…it’s more complicated than that.”
It always is. Especially where women are concerned. I don’t push him to spill any further information. If he wants to share, he will. In the meantime, we have a DEA agent to track down. Michael’s up to speed on the Lowell fiasco already. Well, he knows as much as I do—that the woman’s back in town and looking to make trouble. He seems unsurprised when I fill him in on the fact that Rebel called and confirmed this, though. He keeps quiet as we close up the gym and climb into the Camaro. He’s extra fucking quiet as we head across town toward the warehouse, where I used to spend at least seventy percent of my time before I met Sloane and ended up moving into her secluded spot on the hill. Not a word passes between us in over thirty minutes. Michael sits motionless in the seat next to me, carved out of rock as I gun the Camaro’s engine, sliding a little too quickly through the corners. He finally protests when I run a stop sign three blocks from the docklands.
“What the hell, man? You drive the most ostentatious, over the top car ever sold. You’re speeding, and now you’re running stop signs? If a cop pulls you over, they’re gonna think they’ve won the motherfucking lottery. You want to spend the rest of the day locked up while five-oh figures out what they can pin on you besides reckless driving?”
I shrug, taking another hair-raising right hand turn. “Just thought you might like waking up,” I tell him.
Michael growls. “I’m perfectly awake, boss.”
This is flame retardant bullshit and he knows it. I let him off, though, because he’s earned it. “Just tell me one thing. Is this bizarre, edgy Michael because the bitch is back in our lives? Or is there something else I should know about?” I don’t have a clue what could possibly be more inconvenient than Denise Lowell entering the Seattle city limits, but shit. Things have been quiet. Too quiet. It’d be grand to believe that this is just how life will be now—predictable and safe, because that’s what Sloane deserves. But I’m not that stupid. It’s my experience that life will pitch you a curve ball or five when you’re least expecting it, and they’re always the ones that fuck you up the most. And when it rains, it motherfucking pours.
Michael presses his fingertips against his mouth, elbow propped up against the window of the Camaro. He stares up at the warehouse as we pull up outside, a grimace twisting his features. “I don’t know,” he says quietly. “I just…I have a bad feeling is all.”
Chapter Three
SLOANE